Every dawn, I shed the husk of who I was. It lies crumpled by the bed—smiling, hopeful, small. I slip on today’s skin: the eyes sharper, teeth honed on disappointments, heart lacquered with fresh indifference.
At work, we nod, our new selves creaking, seams slick with yesterday’s rot. No one comments. We have all grown heavier masks, each more brittle than the last.
By nightfall, I’m scraping at my temples, desperate to breathe. The pile of discarded selves in the closet twitches, whispering.
Tomorrow, I’ll wear one of them again. Pretend it still fits. Pretend it was ever real.
